


Straight On Til Morning

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Peter Pan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tired soldier. A raging storm. A missing shadow. And a pocketful of fairy dust.</p>
<p>John Watson has been invalided home from Afghanistan, is depressed, lonely and heavily medicated. Nothing ever happens to him. Until a madman breaks into his tiny room, looking for the shadow that escaped him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight On Til Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock as Peter  
> John as Wendy  
> Jim as The Shadow  
> Mycroft as Tinkerbell

It was a miserable night, after a frankly bloody awful day. The weather had gotten steadily worse, until a storm was screaming outside. John Watson drifted in and out of sleep- his pain medication made him drowsy, but not enough to keep the dreams from waking him. He was in a tiny hotel room- drab, sterile, lonesome, but paid up until the end of the month. After that ran out, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. The idea of going to Harry made him cringe.

The first crash, he had assumed was thunder, and had grumpily ignored it by turning over, and tucking his head under the blankets. The second, however, was much closer, and followed by a muttered curse. Last time John checked, weather didn’t swear.

John pushed himself up, fumbling for the bedside lamp. “Who’s there?” He called, wishing that his pistol wasn’t buried in the drawer of his dresser. “What do you want?”

“Do people ever answer that?” Replied a deep baritone voice. John couldn’t see anyone, but the words seemed to come from under the bed. “Honestly, do they really ever say,” he voice took on a high falsetto. “Oh, it’s just a pair of robbers. I’m Gus, and this is Big Pete. Gonna take your laptop now.” The depth returned. “But, I shall answer you.”

From the side of the bed, a sharply angled face, topped with a riot of dark curls appeared. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I’m looking for my shadow.”

“Your… shadow?”

“Yes, shadow. Dark figure, sort of like me, always one step behind? He ran away and I tracked him down to this room.” The man pulled himself from under the bed, stretching out to an impressive height. At least, to John, it was an impressive height.

John leaned over, gripping the mattress to steady himself. “Huh…” he mumbled. Even with the light shining, there was no shadow leading away from the man’s feet. John raised his hand, and waved. On the carpet, a patch if grey waved back. “How…” he licked his lips and looked up at the intruder, who was watching him with keen interest. “Listen, Mr Holmes, what is going on?”

“Sherlock, please.” With a flutter of his long coat, the man hopped up to perch on the foot board. He was regarding John with an almost avian expression, head tilted to one side.

“Right, um, Sherlock then. Please explain what’s going on. How did you get into my room?”

“I told you, I’m looking for my shadow.” Sherlock slipped down to sit crosslegged on the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees, with his fingers pressed to his chin. “As for how I got into your room, I should think it was obvious. I came in through the window.”

John sputtered, fisting his hands in the blankets. “My window? This is the fifth bloody floor! You’re not going to try and tell me you climbed?”

“No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good, for a moment, I was ab-“

“I flew.” The grin that accompanied this confession was dazzling, and just a little crooked.

Groaning, John scrubbed one of his hands over his forehead. “You do realise how completely barking mad that sounds?” He asked, his voice strained.

“I don’t see what’s mad about it.” Sherlock began ticking off points onto his palm with long slender fingers. “You can clearly see that I am not casting a shadow. I am in your room despite the door being locked. I couldn’t have climbed the wall, because this building is flush below your balcony. So, what remains? That I flew into your bedroom, in search of my missing shadow. Are you alright, John?”

Scrambling for something to latch onto, John shook his head. “How do you know my name?”

With a good natured chuckle, Sherlock reached out and tapped the dog tags hanging around the soldier’s neck. John looked down, and snickered. Then giggled. Soon the pair were laughing outright, shaking the bed.

“God…” John gasped eventually, wiping tears from his cheeks. He and the madman were leaning against the wall, trying to catch their breath. “I haven’t laughed like that in months. It must be the medication. It has to be.” He crawled across the bed to pick up his prescription bottle.

“Trust me, John. There’s nothing wrong with y-” He cut himself off, and leaped from the bed, tackling something into the wall.

John saw a squirming dark shape try to pull away from Sherlock. Training took over, and he grabbed the lamp from the table, and hurled it across the room. It shattered on the wall, in the same spot where the shadow’s head seemed to be. It stilled, but Sherlock kept his grip on it.

“Fantastic, John! That has him quiet for now.” He dragged the shadow from the wall, and sat on the floor with a look of frustration. “Now what?” He grumbled.

“How about this?” John dropped to his knees by his footlocker, digging through to pull out his medical supply kit. From the kit, he produced some surgical thread, and a needle. “Would this work?”

Those brilliant blue eyes flashed. “Perfect, John.” He stuck out his feet, positioning the shadow against them.

John set himself to the task, pointedly ignoring the voice in his head that had been shrieking about how insane this all was. “How did it get away?”

Sherlock flapped a hand, and shrugged. “I got distracted, and he slipped away from me. It’s alright when I keep him under wraps, but he does tend to cause a lot of mischief when I don’t pay him enough attention. In fact, he can get delightfully destructive. Isn’t that right?” This last was directed to the shadow, who stuck its thumbs in its ears, waggling its fingers. “Remind me sometime, and I’ll tell you about the time he got away for three weeks. Quite fun.” He examined the stitching with a look of genuine pleasure. “Wonderful. He won’t be getting away for a long while, now.”

Sherlock clapped his hands to his thighs and jumped up. John could have sworn he stayed in the air for a second too long. “Well, now that’s done, why don’t you get dressed, and we can go?”

John gazed up at him. “We? Go?” He rubbed his damp palms on his pajama bottoms. “You mean, me go with you?”

“Of course. You can’t tell me you want to stay here?” He held out his arms and spun around, taking in the whole room.

A room that seemed far smaller, duller, and lonelier than it had ever before. John lurched to his feet, gripping the bedpost. “How can I? I mean, I can’t- oh my god, I’m really going to say this… Sherlock, I can’t fly!”

That dazzling grin was back. Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “Easily remedied.” He laughed, and began digging in his pockets. From inside his coat, he pulled out a small glowing figure.

It was a tiny man in a three piece suit, with an umbrella and a look of extreme annoyance. Sherlock shook it roughly, and a rush of sparkles fell into his outstretched palm. “This little creature gives a steady supply of fairy dust, which is half of what you need for flight.” He stuffed the protesting little man back into his pocket. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on John’s injured shoulder. “Do you want to come with me, John?”

John had forgotten the last time he had heard his name spoken like that. For years it had been attached to orders from his COs, cried out by young men and women begging him to save them, to be better. Wailed by his sister, calling him while drunk and morose. Now here was this amazing, brilliant, definitely mad man, and he called to John, softly with something close to concern in his voice.

“Get me the hell out of here.” Desperately, John clutched at Sherlock’s jacket.

A wave of relief moved quickly over Sherlock’s face, leaving John thinking that perhaps, here was someone who understood what it was to suffer from painful loneliness. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, “and think of the happiest thing you can.”

John obeyed, wondering if he should tell the other man that he was picturing the look of pride he had worn as John pulled out his needle and thread. “Half an hour,” he whispered. “You’re already the most important thing to me. I think I’m going mad myself.”

That lush baritone rumbled in a deep throated chuckle. “It’s quite fun after you get used to it.” Sherlock took a breath, and blew the dust over ashy blond hair.

John felt a tingle rush through him, hot followed by cold. Sherlock’s chuckle rose to a giggle. “Open your eyes.”

Again, the soldier obeyed, to find he was eye to eye with the other man. He gasped, and looked at the floor, nearly six inches below his feet. “Oh my god!”

Sherlock left him floating there and tore through the dresser, shoving clothes into a rucksack. “Come on, let’s go.” He threw the balcony door open and stepped out into the storm.

John hesitated at the railing, grasping the gritty metal while chewing his lip. “I don’t know if I can. This is insane!” He was panting for breath with rain streaming in his eyes.

From above him, Sherlock swooped down, flitting behind John’s back. He craned his head to to whisper in his ear. “Oh, John… think of all the things we can do. The adventures we’ll have.” He curled a hand around John’s arm, pressing close. “There will be pirates, and tigers. We’ll fight villains and play the most amazing games. There’ll be danger, John. Excitement. And we can face it all together. Just say you’ll come with me.”

The warmth at his back vanished, and John realised he was willing to do anything to get that feeling, that sensation of finally arriving _home_ , back. He took two steps, and pulled himself onto the railing.

Hovering in the sky, the lightning creating a silver nimbus around him, Sherlock reached down. “All you have to do, is take my hand. Adventures, John. With me.”

Steadying himself, John slid his hand into Sherlock’s. With a delighted laugh, he leapt from the balcony.

 


End file.
